


cinnamon and vanilla

by bacondoughnut



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Concussions, Eating Disorders, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Found Family, Human Disaster Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel Friendship, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Nightmares, Protective JT Tarmel, Self-Destruction, Sleep Deprivation, Tally Tarmel is a Saint, Team Bonding, but it could be Interpreted that way so just tagged to be safe, not explicit or really talked about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:42:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26509945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondoughnut/pseuds/bacondoughnut
Summary: "You know, you don't have to babysit me. I'm fine."Actually his head's still spinning. A concussion will do that to you.The rest of his symptoms he ought to be able to handle. He already had them anyway. Nausea, headaches, lack of focus. All of that's a side affect of sleep deprivation, too. Hitting his head only amplified a noise that was already there.But that doesn't have to be JT's problem. He doesn't have to be JT's problem."Sorry bro, Gil's call not mine. Believe me."Or; Malcolm gets some french toast and a concussion. Not necessarily in that order.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 125





	cinnamon and vanilla

**Author's Note:**

> dani's always driving malcolm home, i thought it was just jt's turn.
> 
> this is more character driven than plot driven, so it doesn't really matter when it takes place. in my head it's somewhere between s01e3 and s01e7 and that's all i got lol

Gil asks him if he's okay, tells him he seems worn out. His mother says he looks exhausted with her characteristic level of melodrama. Edrisa's word is _fatigued,_ clinical and concerned all at once.

JT wordlessly passes him a coffee when he makes it to the bullpen. Dani takes one look at him and asks, "You sleep at all, Bright? You look dead on your feet."

He supposes it doesn't matter what word they use for it.

The simple truth is, Malcolm's tired.

He hasn't had more than two or three hours of real sleep in the past week--He's had a kind of sleep, sure. Put head to pillow, restraint to wrist. Shut his eyes and lost consciousness. But there's been little to no R.E.M mixed in there, and more often than not he's woken up screaming through his mouthguard. That's on the nights he manages to drift off at all.

This is not unusual.

In fact, it's pretty par for the course.

Pavor nocturnus; night terrors. Chronic insomnia.

Having the names for his issues doesn't help much in dealing with them. He thought he was used to it by now anyway, it's not like these issues are new.

But some days--or weeks, or even months--are better than others. It's gotten worse since his return to New York, yes, but it's not always unmanageable even here. Sometimes the right mixture of daily exhaustion and medication and mindfulness exercises will earn him some near decent rest. Other times he's focused enough on casework not to mind so much that he can't seem to sleep. He can read files and keep up to date on new journals all night and say it's work keeping him up.

In the mornings he skips breakfast because he always does. Sometimes he skips lunch, because he just forgets. And in the evenings, sometimes, he's just too tired to even think about dinner.

In the late 1800s a man named George M. Stratton conducted a series of experiments using inverted glasses. He found that the first day of wearing them, the landscape felt nauseating and unreal. By the second day his own body position was all that seemed strange. By day seven, the world inverted had become the new normal. The same process followed when he took off the glasses.

The human brain is remarkably adaptable to change. A world turns upside down and it adjusts.

So that's what Malcolm does. He adjusts.

Ignoring his issues is an acquired skill. Malcolm Bright is a long time connoisseur of avoidance techniques. Which he knows isn't actually a good thing, but it's a good deal easier, for a time, than actually addressing his problems.

Except as adaptable as the brain is, it's persistent too. The girl in the box, it seems, even more so.

One too many nights spent in the company of phantoms. One too many days spent in the pursuit of answers, at the expense of pursuing anything else, like basic needs.

Eventually it catches up with him and he can't adjust to the world tilting fast enough and he's _tired._ The sort of tired that creeps into his bones, hollows out the marrow, and makes it's home there.

The sort of tired that no amount of caffeine or attempted morning yoga can touch.

Put simply, it sucks.

And it does nothing for his work life.

Eight cups of coffee in the last hour and forty-five minutes, stomach turbid and sour, hands shaking like San Andreas (that might or might not be the caffeine), he says he's fine.

"Or," he adjusts at the skeptical looks Dani and JT five, "My version of it, anyway."

That's an answer they seem to at least accept. Begrudgingly.

He hasn't once regretted the steps he's taken to become friends, or something almost friends at least, with them. His team. That's what they are, a team, and that's more important than having friends anyway. Isn't it?

But he can't say he hasn't noticed a downside to having more people than just Gil and his mother and Ainsley as constants in his life.

The more people who care about him, the more people who can call him on his bullshit. It screws with those aforementioned avoidance techniques just enough to throw him off his rhythm. He has answers prepared for Gil's questioning, his mother's insistent--well, mothering. But a nudge from Dani, a concern disguised as a quip from JT, an unintentionally blunt calling out from Edrisa. He hasn't prepared defenses for those.

Edrisa asks if he remembered breakfast this morning, saying something about the importance of keeping ones blood sugar up, and Malcolm dismisses it and talks profiling. And on his way back to the car from the crime scene he nearly walks directly into oncoming traffic.

He needs to focus.

They're back at the precinct waiting for a warrant. Waiting for lab results. Malcolm's not actually sure what they're waiting on, he missed that part while Gil was talking. Distracted by...something.

Technically these ghosts should be haunting his father. By some cruel trick of fate, they follow him instead.

But then, he can't remember. Maybe they have good reason to follow him instead. Maybe this ghost is his after all. He's missing time. The thought sends a shudder down his spine and he tries to refocus on what Gil is saying.

They say that driving tired is more dangerous than driving drunk.

Sleep deprivation can interfere with your brain cells' ability to communicate with one another. Neurons slow. They fire more weakly. Transmissions begin to drag on. It can result in things like memory lapse. Difficulty focusing.

They're back at the precinct waiting for _something_ before they can follow a lead up, and Gil's noticed he's distracted, the whole team has. And Gil offers the couch in his office, suggests he try and take a quick nap while they're stuck here. In a way that's not actually a suggestion. He quirks an eyebrow in that one specific way, the one that says, 'I'm asking as a friend. Don't make me ask as a boss.' And Malcolm doesn't have the option to argue.

That doesn't actually stop him from arguing, but his success is nonexistent. Still, even as he makes his way in defeat to Gil's office, he knows he won't emerge any less tired than he already is.

Everyone else knows it too.

Dani's waiting with a fresh cup of coffee and news on the warrant, they were waiting for a warrant, when he steps out of Gil's office.

* * *

He can get away with being a mess when he's a mess that works. People tell him to sleep more, to take better care of himself--not that these are issues entirely within his control, but whatever--but they don't actually seem to mind that he doesn't listen. Their responsibility for it is waived once they've verbally expressed their concern.

It's when his demons outweigh his usefulness that problems tend to crop up. He makes mistakes, sloppy ones. And it's his fault.

It's usually his fault.

Maybe the girl in the box shouldn't be the only ghost following him.

He missed a detail he should've noticed, wouldn't noticed had he not been so out of it all week. Someone else got hurt because of it. More than one someone.

Another body drops. A seventeen year old girl is landed in the ICU. The killer they've been chasing shoots her in the ribs for no reason other than to slow them down once they've found him, and it works. He gets away.

Malcolm's hands are soaked in blood by the time the ambulance gets there.

Gil's angry. He says that it's just because their suspect got away, but there's more than that. Because it's Malcolm's fault their suspect got away, he should've known better than to let the guy know they were onto him. Should've been more careful. Gil's eyes light on the stains on Malcolm's sleeves and he's sure that's the only thing that saves him from a lecture.

It's two whole days before they get another lead.

A gun. Unregistered, predictably, but they manage to trace it's origins back to a specific black market dealer. One that mostly works well within the radius of their killer's hunting ground.

Dani texts him the details while he's doubling back to the last crime scene to check for anything he could've missed. (Anything else, that is.)

They have a location on the dealer, their only real lead on the killer. And they're already on the way, but Malcolm's already in the neighborhood. He only plans on surveilling so they don't lose him before they can talk to him, but when he gets eyes on the dealer, it's when a deal is already going down. Their suspect is there.

Their suspect, who'll be in the wind if Malcolm lets him leave. He can, at the very least, stall. Save time for the cavalry to arrive.

It's that line of thinking that finds him confronting weapons dealers and thrill killers in a dark alleyway. (Must be Tuesday.) And he'll take whatever scolding he gets for not waiting for backup later, but if he keeps them from leaving long enough for them to bring in their suspect, it's worth it. He can do this. He's good at this.

He has to be good at this, because this is the only thing he's good at. They took a chance on him when the FBI fired him, and he has to be good at this.

He's better at this when he can focus clearly. Or semi-clearly.

But his reaction time is slowed, his depth perception isn't at it's best, and he hasn't actually eaten more than coffee today, which means he's nauseas too. In short, he's driving drunk. And he gives himself away too soon, and the suspects both run, and when they run Malcolm chases.

And all things considered, he thinks he keeps up pretty well. And he can already hear the yelling and bootsteps behind him that indicate the arrival of backup, however distant.

Then the dealer reaches into his bag and throws something that later proves to be a flashbang over his shoulder. Malcolm's less worried at the time about what it is the man threw as he is about the dumpster wall that it bounces his skull off of.

Their suspects are getting away.

He doesn't remember hitting the ground, but he gets his feet back underneath his legs and goes right back down again. And this whole world spinning this is really doing wonders for his nausea, and he wishes he could say the ground just seems more welcoming, but he can't totally differentiate up from down to say that this is the ground.

Gil drops to the ground in front of him. Actually looking up from the grimy puddle beneath him proves more daunting a task than it should be, but it's Gil's voice breaking through the ringing in his ears, telling him to take it easy. Telling him what a stupid move that was.

He pushes Gil to the side so he can throw up without getting any on him. His stomach doesn't have much more than bile to surrender, but he heaves until it's as empty as the rest of him anyway.

* * *

"You know, you don't have to babysit me. I'm fine."

Actually his head's still spinning. A concussion will do that to you.

The rest of his symptoms he ought to be able to handle. He already had them anyway. Nausea, headaches, lack of focus. All of that's a side affect of sleep deprivation, too. Hitting his head only amplified a noise that was already there.

But that doesn't have to be JT's problem. _He_ doesn't have to be JT's problem.

"Sorry bro, Gil's call not mine. Believe me." A hand claps against his shoulder, at once jarring and reassuring. "Besides, how you gonna wake yourself up every two hours?"

"I never sleep that long anyway."

It's the truth but it's meant to be delivered as a joke. JT doesn't laugh.

He supposes there's a certain irony to it. That he thinks he's finally exhausted enough to fall asleep and stay that way, and now he actually can't.

He'll think up a better joke when his head feels better. He'll find a way to make it up to them. Missing details, messing up. Making JT give up a comfortable night at home just to keep an eye on him. All of it.

Not taking care of himself is fine when he's the only one he's hurting. Night terrors. Chronic insomnia. Complex PTSD. And there's still more. The list goes on. He's been sick longer than he hasn't. He can deal with it. He can adjust.

But when all of it piles up, when it gets in the way of his work, when he hurts more than just himself. That's a different story.

That girl in the ICU isn't the first victim of a killer he should've stopped. In fact, she's in the ICU instead of a box, she's one of the luckier ones.

And tonight's not the first night he's made a team member sacrifice their own easy sleep to take care of him. Which feels particularly cruel when he knows so well how important a night's sleep can be.

They say that driving tired is more dangerous than driving drunk. Malcolm just keeps drinking his own failure, and that's a bottle more bitter and more potent than any alcohol he's tasted, and it never seems to empty.

"You still with me?"

Malcolm blinks. Nods.

He's not sure if JT's been talking or not. He apologizes just in case. Says, "Sorry. I'm just...tired."

"Yeah," JT answers knowingly. "Which is why you should be getting to bed and not doing that weird zoning out thing in your kitchen."

Fair enough.

It takes him another second but he returns to focus. JT moves to investigate the contents of his fridge, and Malcolm ducks out before he can deal with any judgement on the lack of contents therein. He musters the energy to change into some sweatpants and a t-shirt that didn't used to be quite so loose, and it's oddly draining. And he contemplates brushing his teeth but inevitably decides not to bother.

When he steps back out of the bathroom, JT's squinting at Sunshine. With the suspicion his guests normally reserve for the collection of ancient weaponry, not his innocuous pet bird.

"Her name's Sunshine."

"Sunshine Bright?" JT answers skeptically. It's dismissive but still weirdly genuine when he says, "That's cute."

Faintly defensive and faintly feeling like it'll be suspicious if he drops the thread of conversation again, Malcolm shrugs and says, "Like you're in a position to mock anyone else's name, Jarmel Tarmel Tarmel."

That gets a laugh, and Malcolm feels weirdly proud for it.

"Not even close."

This is where their conversation ends. Which is fine, because Malcolm's hopefully said enough to avoid scrutiny--anymore than he's already going to be subjected to, when JT's sole reason for being there is to scrutinize. Anyway, he doubts his mental capacity to keep up a normal conversation right now. And he trusts JT, yes, but he also knows JT's never been fully comfortable with how...weird Malcolm objectively is.

He gets into bed and manages to secure one wrist on his own. He fumbles with the second.

JT steps in to help him like he was expecting this. Mercifully, without comment.

Malcolm contemplates telling him he doesn't need help, he's not sure for whose sake. But 'I can do it myself' sounds more like a petulant toddler than anything else, and the next thing he comes up with is 'I don't deserve your help' and, verbal filter or no, he knows that's worse. And then he's spent too long thinking about it, and JT's already stepping away anyway.

"I don't know how you sleep like this, bro."

He thinks about re-explaining the night terrors, although he knows the remark is more hypothetical than anything. He thinks about re-explaining and all he comes up with is, "I threw myself out that window once."

If his neurons were firing at their proper speed, he would've known that was the wrong thing to say before he said it. As it is, he doesn't catch on until JT gives him that _look._

"Like, on purpose?"

"No, I was--In my sleep," he explains, and some of the alarm in JT's body language dissipates, although the troubled expression remains.

"Alright. I'll watch out for that."

He almost says that's not why he brought it up, but he can't quite recall why he did bring it up, so he settles for letting it go. Falls back against the pillows and says, "Goodnight, JT."

"Uhuh," JT says. And Malcolm shuts his eyes, but he can hear the footsteps retreating back towards his kitchen.

* * *

It's probably two hours later. Might be four, if he doesn't remember the last time JT woke him up.

The time probably doesn't matter.

Anyway, JT taps his wrist a few times to wake him up. It's more gentle a wakeup call than Malcolm was expecting from him. Tentative. Possibly, all the talk of night terrors from before has him worried about what waking Malcolm up actually looks like. Possibly, and this seems less likely in Malcolm's soggy brain, he feels bad having to wake him.

"Bright?"

"'m awake," he slurs, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "What's up?"

"Just checking on you," comes his answer. With a hint of humor, "Don't want Gil to fire my ass if you die on my watch or something."

Right. Now he remembers.

"Concussions are rarely fatal," Malcolm says, dropping back against the mattress. "It's hematoma we're worried about."

No doubt JT knows what a hematoma is. Malcolm's isn't the first concussion either of them has seen, and JT's the one keeping watch. But he humors him anyway, "Hematoma?"

"Can lead to brain damage," Malcolm hums dismissively. He sits up again, remembering something. "In some cases, pressure build up in your skull can actually push part of the brain through the hole at the bottom of your skull, where the spinal column passes through."

"Yikes."

Malcolm nods.

JT gives his shoulder an affirming pat and says, "Well we don't want anything to happen to that big brain of yours, so I'm gonna ask you some questions. Make sure you're good. Then I'm gonna get two hours of sleep so we can do this again. Okay?"

* * *

Next time goes more or less the same. Then JT's walking away.

And Malcolm's more or less awake. They both know it, otherwise he wouldn't be walking away. But they're not friends, not yet anyway, and he doesn't know how to talk to JT. Not like he can talk to Gil, or even Dani. Work stuff is fine, but otherwise they're polar opposites and they don't get along easily. He has to say it though.

So he figures it's best to say it now. They won't have to address it in the morning because he was half-asleep and JT was tired too and conversations that take place in the middle of the night are like Vegas.

"Thank you."

JT frowns. "What for?"

"Taking care of me. I know I, uh, don't make it easy," he says, waving one of his wrists pointedly. "You don't have to."

"Yes I do."

"Right," Malcolm says, nodding. "Because Gil..."

He trails off, suddenly wondering if he should've just left his gratitude unspoken.

"That's not why. Are you serious, bro?" He doesn't actually answer, but apparently he doesn't have to. JT takes a step back towards him. Says, like it's the simplest thing in the world, "You're part of the team, man."

Maybe it's the concussion, maybe it's the ease with which JT says it. Something throws him.

So as Malcolm hovers on the bleak edge of sleep and unconsciousness, listens to Sunshine chirp when JT creeps past her cage, he thinks about being part of the team.

He's never been part of a team before. Not like this.

His colleagues at the FBI had his back in the field, sure. They also never trusted him, and they certainly never called him on his bullshit. They never cared if he was broken, so long as he was broken enough to work. The dropped conversation and sideways looks whenever he stepped into a room was a dead giveaway of what they said when he wasn't there. What they thought of him, even if they were willing to be professionals about it.

JT doesn't whisper his opinions, he tells Malcolm him directly. Yes, he thinks he's weird. He also thinks he's part of the team.

Malcolm can't picture a single one of his old colleagues at the FBI waking him up as carefully as JT. Somehow knowing what mornings he needs someone to pry and what mornings he needs quiet companionship the way Dani does.

Maybe that's because they're not a team.

They are, of course they are, but maybe it's not that simple. They're constants. Just like Gil and his mother and Ainsley. Which means they're family, in a broader sense of the word. And that's so much more terrifying, so much more meaningful than having just some team anyway. Isn't it?

* * *

It's morning and it's hushed voices in his kitchen that wake him, and not a flash of oppressive terror. It's morning and it's a sense of comfort, if vague confusion, that wakes him and not a sense of impending threat.

It's a mercy of sorts.

He almost wants to let himself doze back off, but a tranquil sleep is a rarity. If he gives it another chance, it still might become something more. Something worse. So he lets his eyes open and sits up. He's not sure who he's expecting to find talking to JT in his kitchen, but it's not...

"Tally?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did we wake you?"

"No," he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. Shaking his head. He's not sure if it's a lie or not, they're voices were quiet, it may well have just been the light through his windows, or circadian rhythm.

"I hope you don't mind me dropping by," she says politely. "JT mentioned your fridge was empty, and I thought you two could use some groceries for breakfast."

Malcolm blinks. "You didn't have to do that. Uh...Thank you."

"Don't thank me, JT's cooking," she says, nudging JT with her elbow as she walks around the counter.

"French toast," JT says, somewhere between pride and disinterest. He settles on pride when he sends a grin over his shoulder and adds, "It's Tally's famous recipe, you'll love it."

Tally pulls a carton of eggs out of a paper bag Malcolm's just noticing on his counter and passes it to JT. This is probably the first time the frying pan hanging on his wall has ever actually been put to stove. He doesn't cook. He's grateful now, at least, that he bought it anyway. If only to avoid the embarrassment of not having one.

He watches them move around his kitchen for a moment, processing.

JT's cooking him breakfast. Tally brought him groceries.

JT lost a good night of sleep just taking care of him, and he's still standing in the kitchen, cooking him breakfast. And it's possible a single night's sleep is less valuable currency to people less haunted than him. It's possible waking up with a sense of near peace, to company other than a bird and the weight of a ghost, is normal.

But then, it's not even JT's recipe, it's hers. She's the real cook, then, not him.

This is a kindness.

He doesn't think anyone's personally cooked him breakfast before. Not since Jackie. He doesn't think anyone's stepped into his home without a hint of judgment before either. But here they both are, talking in his kitchen, making French toast.

Malcolm hasn't earned this. How could he earn this?

He's being too quiet.

"You okay, bro?" JT's asking.

"Yeah," Malcolm overcompensates and agrees too quickly. He passes a hand through his hair and tries for an explanation. "Just...slept weird."

JT hums. "Window's still intact."

He supposes that, too, is a mercy.

He forces a chuckle as he finally stirs, moving to undo the restraints on his wrists without drawing too much attention to himself. As he appears in the kitchen, JT says, "Toast is okay, right? I remember you saying something about a lotta food making you sick."

"Toast is great." Tally squints at him quizzically, and he feels as if he's been a bad host. Even if he's been asleep however long she's been here. Searching for energy, and pretending where he can't find it, he makes himself smile and says, "Can I make you some coffee? Tea? Anything?"

She and JT exchange a look he's not awake enough yet to read, and she says, "Coffee. Thank you."

Malcolm nods and sets to making some coffee.

It's a quick enough task, and he pours each of them a mug before sitting down at the island. Tally comes over and sits at the stool next to him, sipping her coffee in content silence for a moment, occasionally throwing an instruction or two towards JT. She's been teaching him to cook.

After a moment, she looks over at him and asks, "Did JT ever tell you about the time he got tetanus?"

"Hey, I told you that story in confidence," JT says, pointing an accusatory whisk in her direction.

"It's my turn to talk to your friend, JT, focus on the frying pan," Tally says dismissively, and JT rolls his eyes but turns his attention back to the stove nonetheless. Malcolm can't help a small smile, be it at their easy affection, or the slight warmth that her referring to him so knowingly as JT's friend brings. "His dad was a hobby mechanic, he had this big garage that JT could never go in as a kid. Didn't want him messing with the projects."

JT scoffs but otherwise doesn't comment.

Malcolm just manages to keep from making an ill-advised joke about dad's and their hobby rooms. Instead he shifts uncomfortably in his seat and keeps the memories it sparks to himself. Sips quietly at his coffee and nods like he wants her to continue.

Tally pauses to sip her coffee too, then says, "Well JT was supposed to meet some friends to play basketball--"

"Just say ball," JT interjects with a smug grin towards Malcolm. "I don't think he knows the difference between sports anyway."

"Oh, hush."

"No, he's got a point," Malcolm concedes, and JT sends an 'I told you so' look back at Tally.

"Anyway. JT was supposed to bring the ball, but it was flat. And his dad kept a pump in the garage, so he snuck in to get it and when he did, he stepped right on a nail."

"Hey, dad could'a kept a cleaner workshop, that's all I'm saying."

"And you could've looked where you were stepping, but you still don't," Tally says, shaking her head. She leans a little closer and says, almost conspiratorial, "He was so scared his dad would be mad at him, he just pulled it out himself."

It's fairly in line with what he expects from a young JT, actually. Fiercely loyal, to the point where he risks getting in trouble with his dad rather than not follow through on the commitment of bringing the ball. A quiet sort of tough in the face of adversity.

He winces a little at the image it draws anyway.

"I pulled that sucker out like it was nothing," JT says, posturing.

"You see where this is going," Tally says, sitting back up and holding her mug to her face. "He was a tough kid, thought hiding a limp for a few days, and a bloody shoe at the bottom of the kitchen trash would be nothing compared to the lecture he'd get. I think he thought it gave him street cred, too."

"Wow," Malcolm says. He's only half teasing when he adds, "You're a badass, JT."

"I know."

Tally hums skeptically and says over her coffee, "He wound up in a hospital for two weeks with a tetanus infection."

"I almost died," JT says lightly, sending a pointed look back at them over his shoulder.

It's just one look and then he turns back to the stovetop, but Malcolm can't shake the impression they're communicating something significant with those two second looks. People who spend enough time together, know each other well enough, can have whole conversations with just a few looks. Psychologically, it's a fascinating phenomena. Interpersonally, it's somewhat frustrating.

They fall into what, on the surface, is an easy companionable silence.

While JT is pulling plates down from Malcolm's cupboards, Malcolm turns towards Tally and asks in a mirror of her earlier conspiratorial half-whispers, "Why did you tell me that story?"

"It's just a story," she says innocently, raising her eyebrows.

"No story is just a story."

She holds his gaze for a moment, and he's not sure who's analyzing who. Eventually, she sets her mug back down on the counter before her.

"Your team cares about you, Malcolm," she tells him earnestly. "I don't know what you're going through, I know it's none of my business. But I think you've been walking around with a bloody sock and a brave face. And I don't want to see what happens when that goes untreated. I know JT doesn't."

"I--"

Is he that transparent? Or does Tally just have more secondhand knowledge about him than he would've thought?

Whatever she knows, or thinks she knows, he supposes it doesn't really matter how she knows it. He hasn't prepared a defense for this. He feels suddenly caught in that half-tranquil half-sick that comes between drunk and hungover. He hardly even knows her, he doesn't know where he earned her concern. He's still processing that he has JT's. 

As JT places a plate on the counter in front of him, Malcolm turns and asks with a false sense of humor, "Is this an ambush?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, bro," JT says, dropping into the stool at his other side.

JT and Tally talk, like he imagines they do over any other breakfast they have any other morning, as if Malcolm isn't sitting right there between them. They joke and they banter and they don't seem to mind that he's quiet, and maybe that's just another kindness. Another addition to the ever growing list of gratitudes he owes this team that's allowed him in.

He stares down at the plate in front of him and wonders at the risks of letting someone else take care of him. The inherent vulnerability of accepting their help; because he can say that he's fine all he wants, but in the instant he accepts assistance, he admits it's not true and that's terrifying.

Or maybe he's reading too much into a plate of French toast.

And anyway, he doesn't have the strength to refuse such a fragile mercy.

So they eat. And they talk. And one bite and one smile at a time, Malcolm starts to come back to himself.

In the late 1800s a man named George M. Stratton conducted a series of experiments using inverted glasses. He found that the first day of wearing them, the landscape felt nauseating and unreal. By the second day his own body position was all that seemed strange. By day seven, the world inverted had become the new normal. The same process followed when he took off the glasses.

Malcolm's world turns upside down on a semi-regular basis.

It flipped when his father was arrested. It flipped when he was fired from the FBI. It flipped when he saw his father again, for the first time in ten years. It flips and it flips and it flips.

Malcolm's family turns his world upside down. Gil. His mother. Ainsley. Dani. Edrisa. JT. Now Tally. He takes the calculated risk of letting them in, and it takes time. It's still going to take time. And he can't say for sure yet whether this will be good or bad for him or them, only that he's willing to try. He's willing to adjust.

So that's what he does.

He tries. He adjusts.


End file.
